


My First, My Only, and My Forever

by vintagelilacs



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, First Time, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Misunderstandings, Sherlock attempts to seduce John, Virginity or Celibacy Kink, and succeeds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-20 21:18:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16145720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vintagelilacs/pseuds/vintagelilacs
Summary: “I was just wondering if there was a reason you hadn’t, you know.” John made a vague gesture.“Had sexual intercourse?” Sherlock supplied.John coughed. “Yes. That.”Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He was missing a vital piece of data, he was sure. John had been looking at him oddly ever since they left Buckingham Palace, and the ensuing incident with Irene Adler had only exacerbated his erratic behaviour. What was it? Why would he care that Sherlock was a virgin? There was nothing reminiscent of mockery or pity in his gaze.And then it hit him.John Watson was aroused.





	My First, My Only, and My Forever

From the moment they left the kerb, the cab ride was spent in silence. Sherlock didn’t think it was an awkward or even fraught silence, but John’s continuous shifting suggested otherwise. His shoulders were tenser than normal, and his lower lip was clamped tightly between his teeth. There was clearly something he wanted to say, but he appeared to be having difficulty steeling himself. Interesting. John was not usually hesitant conversing with him. Very few subjects were taboo between them, and even then Sherlock tended to tread on matters that John deemed _“extremely personal, what the hell Sherlock, how could you ask me that?”_

“Was it true?” John shifted again. The pleather seats squeaked as he angled his body towards Sherlock. “What Mycroft said earlier?” 

“Mycroft says a lot of things.” When his mouth wasn’t stuffed full of cake. 

“A few days ago,” John clarified. “Back at Buckingham Palace. About you being an, er...”

Oh, _that_. Sherlock’s momentary excitement deflated. How utterly tedious. Here he’d been anticipating a subject of great intrigue. Damn his brother. He didn’t particularly care about his intact state of virtue, but he did, as inconvenient as it may be, care about John. 

“Yes, I am a virgin,” Sherlock finally answered with a sigh, putting the poor ex-military doctor out of his squirming, uncomfortable misery. 

“I see.” John’s cheeks and ears suffused with colour. “That's… fine.”

“Is it?” 

“Of course. It’s quite alright.”

Sherlock’s eyes fixated on the subtle sweep of John’s tongue across his lips. It was evident there was still more he wanted to ask, but societal conventions dictated he didn’t outright pry. Sherlock waited patiently for John to work up the nerve. He knew that John’s curiosity was warring with his ingrained sense of politeness and tactfulness, but it would only be a matter of time. 

“Why?” he managed eventually. 

“Why?” Sherlock repeated. “Depending on your definition of the word, it would be because I have yet to come into contact with another person’s genitals.”

“I know what a virgin is, Sherlock,” John huffed, a modicum of irritation filtering into his words. “I meant, why are you one?” 

The answer to that should have been prima facie. Did “married to his work” mean nothing? Of course, it wasn’t the whole truth, but John should have been able to arrive at a convenient, false conclusion on his own. 

“Perhaps no one considers me attractive.” 

A disbelieving snort escaped John before he could compose himself. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. “Don’t give me that. You know you’re gorgeous.” 

His heart palpitated. His heart seemed to do that a lot when John was around. Maybe he had cardiac arrhythmia. He should really get it examined one of these days. With feigned nonchalance, Sherlock drawled, “How utterly ‘not gay’ of you to say so.” 

“I just meant—well, look at you.” John’s eyes swept over him seemingly of their own volition. 

For a moment, his vocal cords seemed frozen. He swallowed, summoning an expression of utter disinterest. “I don’t have a mirror on hand,” he deadpanned.

“Git,” John elbowed him. “I was just wondering if there was a reason you hadn’t, you know.” He made a vague gesture. 

“Had sexual intercourse?” Sherlock supplied.

John coughed. “Yes. That.” 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He was missing a vital piece of data, he was sure. John had been looking at him oddly ever since they left Buckingham Palace. The ensuing incident with Irene Adler had only exacerbated his erratic behaviour. What was it? Why would he care that Sherlock was a virgin? There was nothing reminiscent of mockery or pity in his gaze. 

And then it hit him. 

He reeled from the rapid-fire influx of data. 

John’s upper body, feet, knees and face were all pointing towards him. His body language was open, his posture expansive, his pupils dilated, his breathing hitched, and he was licking his lips even more than usual. 

John Watson was aroused. More accurately, he was aroused because of Sherlock. 

Heart pounding at a worrying rate, Sherlock cast his gaze over John’s shoulder, focusing on the blur of London streaking past. He wasn’t sure what to do with this discovery. If he played it to his advantage, perhaps he could encourage John to reject his (extremely inconvenient) heteronormative self-perceptions and even act on his arousal. 

“Maybe I’ve yet to find someone capable of satisfying my needs,” Sherlock suggested, affecting an air of indifference. “After all, what’s the use in sex if it isn’t going to be phenomenal?” 

The cab ride was silent once more, but Sherlock didn’t miss the tiny gulp John gave, nor the heated stares he continued to send his way.  
  
  
  
When they arrived back at the flat, Sherlock retreated to his bedroom without a word. He immediately strode to his wardrobe and pulled on a fitted shirt. The fabric was thin and a bright, cardinal red. The colour was well known for triggering a basic, primal response in humans as a signal of sexuality and fertility, and as such, he usually reserved the shirt for cases that required a degree of manipulation. People were much more likely to trust and help those they were attracted to. _Idiots._

Sherlock had to admit he was rather curious as to what John’s reaction would be in seeing him wear it. He popped the top couple buttons open, exposing his clavicle. The material was thin and tight enough that his nipples showed through. As for his trousers, he owned a pair that were half a size too small, and he knew it would showcase his posterior nicely. 

The idea of John lusting over him made his blood quicken in his veins, but there was also a niggling doubt in the back of his mind. What if he’d miscalculated? What if John didn’t really want him that way? He’d never exhibited signs of arousal prior to discovering he was a virgin. It was likely not Sherlock himself that John was attracted to, but rather, the idea of being his first sexual partner. Or perhaps his interest stemmed from the possibility of being the experienced one in the relationship. It was no secret John was more knowledgeable when it came it human interaction. Being in charge and having the upper-hand for once in their dynamic was likely very appealing to him. If that was the case, it worked out well. Sherlock quite liked the thought of being at John’s mercy—not that he’d ever outright admit it. 

Even if his plan went accordingly, he knew it would not be a lasting recurrence. He was incapable of fulfilling all of John’s needs, and not just on a physical level. He was hardly the epitome of a good romantic partner. He was often cold and self-absorbed, he lacked compassion, and his work would always, without question, come first. No one wanted to be involved with someone whose career took precedence over all else, and especially not someone who was upfront about such a selfish priority. 

The most he could hope for was a short-lived fling, or maybe even only a one-night stand. He and John were both adults; they’d hardly let a once-off get in the way of their friendship. And even if John did have qualms about maintaining a friendship afterwards, he was too addicted to the lifestyle Sherlock provided him to ever fully abandon him.

It was worth the risk. 

He’d craved John’s touch for so long, and John’s reciprocal attraction made his own impossible to ignore. He wanted him, and whether the object of his desire was cocaine, cigarettes, or one John Watson, he rarely denied himself. 

After artfully tousling his hair, Sherlock finally emerged from his bedroom. John was seated, predictably, in his chair, and was tapping away at his keyboard. Sherlock swaggered past, shimmying his waist slightly as he did so. John didn’t so much as look up from his laptop. Sherlock’s lips thinned. Time to try a different approach. 

“John.” 

“There’s already a pot of tea ready, but you have to actually pour it yourself if you want a cup.” Still he did not look up from the undoubtedly trifling blog post.

“I was actually going to ask you a different favour.” Sherlock lowered his voice. “A more personal one.” 

That finally seized John’s attention. He raised his head slowly from the screen, gawking as he caught sight of Sherlock. “What are you wearing?” 

Sherlock feigned confusion. “A red top and a pair of black trousers. Surely you possess the observational skills to realize that for yourself.” 

John habitually licked his lips. “What happened to the clothes you were wearing before?”

“Chemical stain. Didn’t notice until now.”

“Then why are you wearing _that_?”

Sherlock tilted his head. “All my other clothes are dirty.” 

“They wouldn’t be if you’d do the laundry once in a blue moon.” 

Blue moon. Ugh. Another astronomy reference. As if he would clutter his mind-palace with such trivial nonsense. What did it matter if the moon was blue or grey or neon pink? He could appreciate the sight of it, of course, but it didn’t make an iota of difference to him.

“Laundry’s boring,” he rebutted. 

“Right.” John’s adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. Sherlock faced his back to him, bending to pick up his own laptop. His trousers greatly restricted movement, but he managed to wiggle his arse slightly as he straightened. 

John’s sharp inhale did not go amiss. Excellent.

“John, I wondered if I might ask you for a favour?” He peered over his shoulder. His flatmate’s eyes were, predictably, glued to his arse.

“Hm?” John sounded dazed. “Er, what is it?” 

“You must understand, I don’t do this often, but I’m feeling rather… what is the colloquialism? ‘Wound up?’” He looked at him through his lashes, aiming for demure. “Could you recommend any good pornography sites?” 

John’s jaw dropped. “You… want to watch porn? _You?_ “ 

“Mm,” Sherlock confirmed. “Preferably of the non-straight variety.” 

A nervous laugh escaped John. “And you think I’m the expert on ‘non-straight’ porn?” 

“Mm, good point. Perhaps I should seek advice from Lestrade instead.” 

“No!” Sherlock arched an eloquent brow at John’s outburst. The former army doctor lowered his gaze. “Lestrade’s straight. He probably wouldn’t feel comfortable...” his voice trailed off. 

“Oh, I don’t know.” Sherlock purposely deepened his voice to the rumbling baritone that usually worked to seduce women (and the occasional man) on cases. “Not everyone’s entirely heterosexual. Sometimes people surprise you.” 

“And are you? Um, not entirely heterosexual, then?” 

“You could say that,” Sherlock allowed. ‘Raging homosexual’ was, he believed, the technical term, but that might have been a bit much for John’s overwrought brain to take in.

John floundered. “You’ve never really shown an interest in these sort of...” he hesitated, trying unsuccessfully to locate an apt descriptor. 

“Contrary to what you might believe, I do have a sex-drive. I can usually ignore it, but sometimes it gets overwhelming.” 

John crossed his left leg over his right, conveniently obscuring his crotch from view. “And porn will help?”

“It always has in the past,” Sherlock answered, holding John’s gaze. “But I don’t think I’ve ever been quite this affected before. My own touch isn’t always enough. I think I might require additional assistance.” 

“And you’ll, what?” He licked his lips _again_. Was he even aware he was doing it? “Make an ad on the internet? Get an account on grindr?” 

“I suppose that would be the best course of action.” 

“But-but it would be with a stranger!” John spluttered. He clearly hadn't expected Sherlock to agree with his idea. “And they could be untrustworthy! Abusive or sex traffickers or serial killers!” 

Sherlock tilted his head to the side as he pretended to consider this. John’s eyes fixed on the pale column of his throat, likely imagining marking him in some way. “Your reasoning is, surprisingly, sound. Unfortunately I don’t have many options, unless you personally know someone who would be willing to do this for me.” 

John muttered something unintelligible. 

“Speak up, John, you know I can’t hear you when you mumble.” 

“I said, _me_.” 

“You?” he pretended to sound surprised. 

“Yes, me,” John gritted out. “I wasn’t called ‘Three Continents’ for nothing.” 

He tried to smother a victorious grin. “I suppose that would be acceptable.”

“Wait, that’s it?” John’s stare was entirely too perceptive for Sherlock’s liking. When had he become so astute? 

“What?” Sherlock prompted.

“That didn’t take you much convincing.” His face scrunched into a complex look of confusion that just as quickly leveled into one of complete comprehension. “Were you trying to seduce me?” 

Sherlock opened his mouth.

“Don’t lie to me,” John added. “I know you too well.” 

Sherlock huffed out an irritated breath. He could surely find a way to omit the truth, but John would be even crosser if he detected any inconsistencies in Sherlock’s claim. In this case, perhaps it would be better to confess outright.

“Since Mycroft’s mention of my virginity, your attraction to me has been obvious. You like being in charge and giving orders; a clear result of your time as a captain in the army. Additionally, society's ludicrous correlation between virginity and purity is ingrained in you. You want me because I'm untouched. I've never been pleasured by another’s hands. You want to be my first, to take me and have me before anyone else.” Sherlock kept his face impassive, not letting on to how affected he was by the conversation, though his lower half likely belied his indifferent tone. “Why don’t you take me, John? Show me how good sex can be. Make me, the aloof, untouchable detective, come on your cock. Make me scream. Ruin me for anyone else so that no matter who I sleep with in the future, my only thought will be of you.” 

“Oh fuck,” John hissed, reaching down to surreptitiously adjust his jeans. A sizeable bulge was already visible through the denim. Impressive, especially for his stature. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?” 

“If you’re not interested, I suppose I’ll have to touch myself.” Sherlock gave an insouciant shrug. “Even though I’m unfortunately lacking in a satisfying technique.” He stretched casually before turning on his heel. 

“Where are you going?”

“My bedroom. You’re more than welcome to join me.”

It took John about thirty seconds to make up his mind, which was less than Sherlock predicted. He had nearly finished unbuttoning his shirt when John appeared in front of him, batting his hands away. 

“Let me.” His voice was gruff, every syllable tight with arousal. 

Sherlock’s chest rose and fell rapidly beneath John’s touch. His hand was shorter in length than Sherlock’s, but broader, and his fingers moved with the deft assurance of a surgeon. When John popped the final button open, he took a minute to examine the pale expanse of Sherlock’s chest. 

The air between them felt charged, crackling with electricity. It was as if they had opposite polarity; John the positive charge to his negative. And when John scraped a blunt nail across one of Sherlock’s nipples, he swore he felt an electrostatic discharge. 

“I didn’t— _haah_ —know they were sensitive.” 

John's lips quirked. “I reckon there’s a lot you don't know about your body. Which is why I'm going to show you.” He lifted his hand to thumb at Sherlock’s lips. “Have you been snogged before?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock admitted reluctantly. John likely wouldn’t express any interest in kissing him now. “But only for experimental purposes.”

“And for manipulating others, I’d wager.”

“Well, yes, that too. I rather thought that was a given.” 

“Can I?” 

“Can you what?” The synapses in his brain seemed to momentarily cease function. “Oh. You’re asking if you may kiss me?” 

John nodded stiffly.

“Yes. I’m not really sure how to initiate a kiss, but you—” 

John cut him off by tangling a hand in his hair and pulling him forwards. John’s lips moved fervently against his own, dragging and sliding wetly. He wanted to take a moment to catalogue the texture and yield of John’s lips, but his brain was hardly at full capacity. He supposed John’s lips were, in a word, fleshy, but it hardly seemed an appropriate adjective. They were dry and chapped from the constant licking he afflicted them with, and while they were significantly thinner than Sherlock’s own, they were more than adequate. Sherlock was thoroughly impressed with the man’s technique even before he introduced his tongue. 

John’s tongue, the very tongue he’d been mesmerized by countless times, was tracing his own mouth, and coaxing his lips to fall open. Sherlock moaned, but the sound was swallowed by John. Sherlock affixed his hands to John’s shoulders as he licked his way into Sherlock’s mouth. This could hardly count as snogging. John was outright fucking his mouth with his tongue. Plundering the wet orifice, licking across his hard palate, and spearing his tongue in and out. It was obscene. 

Millions of bacteria were being transferred between their mouths as they kissed. John’s bacteria was inside his mouth, mixing with his saliva. The thought made him weak at the knees. He knew John could feel the instant his legs began shaking, because his lips drew into a smirk. 

“Still alright?” John asked, pulling back in order to assess him. Sherlock was relieved his chest wasn’t the only one heaving for breath.

He managed an indistinct noise in response. “Your kissing method was acceptable.” 

“It was, was it?” John grinned. “Clearly not if you’re still able to sass me.” John wet his lips with his tongue. Those damn, infernal lips! Now that Sherlock knew what he could do with them, it would be even harder watching John lick his own lips. “Have you ever been kissed anywhere else?” 

“At Trafalgar Square, Regent’s Park and near Southwark Bridge. And at a gay bar. Strictly for a case, of course.” 

John huffed a laugh. “I meant on your body.” 

“Oh. Then no. I haven’t.”

“That’s a real shame.” 

“Is it?” 

John’s eyes coasted across his newly exposed flesh—lingering on the peak of his nipples, and the contours of his stomach. “I want to kiss you, taste you all over.”

“Please,” Sherlock whispered. “I want your lips, your tongue, your teeth. Suck on my skin until the superficial blood vessels burst.” 

“You would look good with a few hickeys,” John agreed. “Why don’t you lie down? We don’t want you collapsing.”

The insinuation that he at all resembled some Victorian damsel made his lips twist into a scowl. Though John did have a valid point. How did people manage kissing for extended periods of time without being affected by lightheadedness? Or maybe it was simply John Watson himself that made him weak at the knees. 

He turned towards the bed, intent on following John’s suggestion, when a hand closed tightly around one of his hips. 

“John?” he questioned. 

“God, your arse. Just let me look at it.” 

John staring at his arse was the entire reason he’d selected this particular pair of trousers, but he also didn’t like not seeing his expression. He couldn’t exactly pick apart John’s thoughts if he was facing the other way. He wondered what emotions were broadcast on the other’s face. Lust was a given, but to what depth and extent? 

“How is your arse even real?” John breathed. Sherlock startled when John squeezed one of his arse cheeks for emphasis. “Can I?” 

“Yes.” Sherlock didn't even know what he was agreeing to, but he was willing to give John anything. One of John’s hands snaked around to his front, deftly locating the zip and pulling his trousers and pants down past his thighs. John didn't seem intent on completely stripping him; only lowering the fabric far enough to expose Sherlock’s bare arse. John reached for both cheeks simultaneously, kneading and squeezing the mounds of gluteofemoral fat. 

“You have no idea how much I've thought of this.” John's breathing was ragged, his fingers constantly digging in and charting new sections of flesh. Sherlock moaned low in his throat. 

John’s fingers were callused. More accurately, the fingers of his left hand—his _gun_ hand—were callused. 

Hands that had been used to injure and kill, to heal and repair, were now stroking over him. The caresses he bestowed were both confident and uncertain, firm and fleeting. 

“Come on. Get on the bed.” 

Sherlock hastily obliged, revelling in the multisensory sound of John’s voice. It was deep, though not as deep as his own, but it possessed a rasping quality, as if he was so turned on he was in pain. The mattress dipped under Sherlock’s weight as he clambered on the bed, his flushed, swollen genitals on full-display. 

“You too,” Sherlock urged, before he could stop himself. John wanted to be the dominant partner, the one in control. Issuing his own commands would sever the illusion that he was an innocent virgin. The virgin part was, of course, true, but he would hardly classify as innocent. However, rather than protest or look put-off, John’s hands went straight to the hem of his jumper. He yanked the decidedly unflattering oatmeal-coloured fabric off his body, and dumped it on the floor. 

Sherlock sucked in a breath. John’s body and scar were terra incognita: planes of unseen and unexplored flesh. He wanted to memorize every micrometer of his skin, to know him by sight, touch, taste, and smell. 

John’s brows made an obnoxious waggling motion. “Like what you see?” he teased. 

“I’d like it better if I could feel it.”

“What’s stopping you?” 

His throat bobbing nervously, Sherlock raised a trembling hand to John’s chest. For a moment, he rested his palm there, absorbing the warmth of John’s skin while allowing him ample time to pull away, to come to his senses and decide he didn’t want Sherlock after all. 

No protests came. 

Slowly, as if not to spook him, Sherlock shifted his hand over his pectorals. He wasn’t bold enough to touch John’s nipples, but he did inch near them, idly training the fibonacci sequence over his suntanned skin. 

“May I touch your scar?” 

John’s eyes, which had drifted shut, snapped back open. Wordlessly, he nodded. Sherlock caressed the subtle jut of his collarbone, before venturing near the scar. Ravaged by infection, and likely containing lingering bullet fragments, the skin was raised and clumped with scar tissue. He didn’t have enough data to know the precise cause of infection, but it could have been anything from penetration of soiled clothing or the introduction of debris and foreign material through the wound canal. 

“There was a significant delay before I could get access to treatment, and I had to undergo wound debridements,” John explained. “I know it’s ugly but—”

Sherlock fitted his lips to the exit wound in a closed-mouth kiss. _You brought him to me. You hurt him and nearly killed him, but you brought him to me._ “It’s beautiful,” he whispered, praying John wouldn’t consider his words morbid. 

“Right,” he cracked a grin. “You’re probably the last person to be turned off by bullet wounds and scarring. Bet you’ve already deduced the size of the bullet and its trajectory.” 

“I did that a long time ago.” 

“Of course you did. No hiding anything from the great Sherlock Holmes.” 

Sherlock eyed John’s rather excited lower half. “Oh, I don’t know,” he drawled. “It seems you’ve been hiding quite a lot from me.” 

John’s eyes darkened at the innuendo. “We’ll have to fix that, won’t we?” 

Sherlock was transfixed by the hypnotic movement of John’s fingers as he unzipped his jeans and divested himself of his pants. The gasp Sherlock let out when he finally witnessed John’s exposed penis wasn’t at all fabricated. His member was thick and turgid, and flushed a dark red. Sherlock wanted so badly that for a moment he couldn’t breathe. 

John waited patiently, allowing him to look his fill. He didn’t know what he wanted to do first. He wanted to get his mouth around him, to suck him down and choke on him. Breathing was boring, but having his airway blocked by John’s engorged penis was an undeniably enticing prospect. He wanted to know what it felt like to have him inside of him, for their bodies to be joined and connected, and for him to finally be filled with something bigger than his own fingers. 

“I’m going to kiss you now, Sherlock Holmes.” John’s eyes were filled with dark intent and swimming with lust. 

“Please,” Sherlock croaked, scooting back to give John room. John thighs bracketed his hips, their aching arousal so close but not quite touching. It was maddening. 

“You’re so bloody gorgeous,” John murmured. “I can’t believe no one’s had you yet.” 

“Just you, John.” _Only you._

True to his earlier promise, John’s lips descended on Sherlock’s body. He sucked and laved his skin with kisses, the press of his mouth both feverish and reverent at once. Sherlock had never experienced this sensation before. He’d been praised for his intellect, but he’d never had his body worshipped by another. 

It was heady and intoxicating, and even though there was nothing hindering his intake of air, he still found himself gasping. 

John’s tongue circled his nipples, before circling his mouth over the dark rosy flesh and giving a hard suck.The sensation zipped in an electric current straight to his penis, and he writhed in place. He couldn’t stand it anymore. He reached to tug at himself, but John batted his hand away. 

“You don’t get to touch yourself,” John murmured against his skin. How John could sound so calm was beyond him. 

John’s mouth journeyed lower, dragging wetly across his stomach. Sherlock drew in a sharp breath, hoping his gasp would be misconstrued as arousal instead of ticklishness. John’s lips pointedly avoided his neglected penis, instead drifting lower. John shifted backwards so he could suck at Sherlock’s thigh, right where his femoral artery was located. He seemed content kissing and suckling him there. 

It was maddening. Sherlock gritted his jaw, forcing back a moan. Time to speed things up. “John,” he began in a querulous voice that wasn't entirely faked. “Can I tell you something?” 

John looked up. “What is it, love?”

He faltered at the use of the pet-name, but he'd deduced before that John liked to use endearments in bed. It probably charmed all of his past, simple-minded girlfriends, but there was no weight to the words. Sherlock exhaled slowly, forcing himself to continue. He knew exactly how to entice John. “I know it’s a bit not good, but sometimes I insert my fingers inside my arsehole and pretend it’s you.” John’s cock twitched against his, further cementing the man’s arousal. “I know I shouldn’t think of you like that, but it’s never enough when I do it. Your fingers are thicker, and even if they’re shorter, they’re what I need. My own don’t fill me up enough, and it feels so empty.”

A noisy exhale rattled out of John. “And you’ve never thought of anyone else fingering you open?”

“Only you,” he confirmed. “I need you.” 

“Yes, you do,” John growled. “I’m going to take such good care of you.” After a bit of fumbling, John managed to locate a container of vaseline and a pack of condoms that were likely fast-approaching their expiry date. He wasted no time coating his fingers and reaching between Sherlock’s arse cheeks. 

Sherlock stiffened instinctively, somehow unprepared for the sensation despite countless fantasies and his own sufficient experience fingering himself. 

“Relax,” John coaxed, rubbing and massaging along his perineum and nudging at his entrance. His other hand gripped Sherlock’s penis, stroking over the swollen flesh for the first time. 

Sherlock threw his head back and moaned. John’s thumb glided over the glans, spreading the accumulating wetness. 

Sherlock was lost to the sensation of being touched and stroked in a place no one had ever touched before, and he didn’t immediately process that one of John’s compact digits had slipped inside him. It was strange, this period before either pain or pleasure made an appearance, and he was left only with the impression that it felt _odd_. 

John coaxed his finger in and out of his hole until he deemed him ready for a second one. 

The attention to his penis never faltered, and Sherlock soon found himself caught between wanting to thrust into John’s fist or to wriggle back onto his fingers. It was amazing how a few swipes and twists of John’s fingers could wring so much pleasure. 

“How does that feel?” John asked, his voice rougher than Sherlock had ever heard it. 

“Good,” he hiccoughed. “It’s s-so good.”

“As good as you imagined?” he teased. 

Sherlock keened as John pressed unerringly against his prostate gland. _“Better.”_

He felt like his mind was going to white out from pleasure and John wasn’t even inside him yet. “More. I need more.”

Joh dug his thumb into the slit of his penis. “I think that’s for me to decide.” 

Oh for god’s sake. Sherlock didn’t have the patience for this. Time to try to appeal to John’s caretaker instincts. “Please. I need you so badly. Help me, please.” 

The effect of his words was immediate. A wave of arousal shuddered through John, and he carefully removed his fingers. 

Sherlock’s heart thundered as he watched John put on a condom and slick himself with lube. He’d experimented with his fingers, and even with toys when the need arose, but he’d never had someone else inside of him. He wasn’t sure he was entirely prepared. He wanted John, wanted to share this with him, but a morass of doubts creeped into his brain. 

What if he wasn’t good? What if John decided he didn’t like the feel of Sherlock’s body?

“Oi,” John’s voice pulled him back to the present. He tapped a finger against the side of Sherlock’s head. “Don’t go disappearing on me. It’s okay to be nervous.” 

“I’m not nervous,” Sherlock huffed. 

“No?” John’s smile was kind, even if his gravelly voice was infused with mirth. “What were you thinking?” 

“I was thinking how any other partner likely wouldn’t make me wait so damn long.” 

“Fine,” John acquiesced. “S’pose we’ve both waited long enough.” 

John had no idea just how long he’d been waiting (hoping) for this to happen. 

John interlaced their fingers together, and used his other hand to guide his penis inside Sherlock’s opening. 

The stretch was unlike anything he'd ever experienced, and he made sure to inform John as much. “Not that I would know,” he broke off to gasp for breath, “seeing as I’m a virgin, but your cock seems huge.” 

John groaned against his neck, exhaling a warm puff of breath that raised the hair on Sherlock’s skin. “You’re so tight,” he groaned. 

“I _am_ a virgin.” Of course the assumption that virgins were ‘tighter’ was entirely flawed, but he decided to leave that unsaid. 

“Not anymore you’re not,” John said, shoving his hips forwards and burying himself to the hilt in Sherlock’s warm, welcome heat. He just as quickly drew back, before snapping forwards again. The pacing was brutal, relentless, and more than worth the wait. 

Sherlock’s mind spiraled away into sensation. There was nothing but him and John, and the connection between their bodies. He knew he should be savouring every second, as sex with John likely wasn’t going to be a recurring event, but the Hippocampal and Entorhinal Cortex regions of his brain seemed to have shut off. 

His lungs filled with the scent of John—the musky, pheromone-rich sweat, the generic fragrance of his soap and shampoo, and something else he couldn’t quite discern. 

John’s eyes had slipped shut, and his mouth was slack with pleasure as he drove in and out, ensconcing himself inside Sherlock’s body. Sherlock automatically moved his arse downwards to meet each of John’s pistoning thrusts. 

Some distant part of his brain wanted to catalogue and memorize how John looked in this moment, but all he could focus on was the pleasure pooling deep in his gut. His penis was obscenely hard, jutting forwards as if begging John’s hand to close around it. 

When John’s hand finally did curl around him, he shuddered out a gasp. The last he’d looked, John’s eyes had been clenched shut. He must have opened them at some point, or perhaps unconsciously sensed Sherlock’s mounting need. 

“Fuck. Oh fuck,” John cursed. 

Sherlock was too far gone to quip about John’s observational skills. 

John plunged deep inside him, his cock dragging along his prostate gland. 

Sherlock’s back arched and his mouth opened on a silent scream. He dug his fingernails deep into John’s back and a noise somewhere between a cry and a wail reverberated through the room as multiple volleys of come shot out of him. 

It should have been embarrassing, losing his composure in front of someone else, indulging in such a base, primal need, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care because he was with John. John, who was panting and gasping and shoving himself into Sherlock’s body like he would die if he didn’t. 

John’s thrusts grew frantic as he rapidly approached his own orgasm. When he finally came, it was with a cry of Sherlock’s name on his lips. 

Sherlock’s post-orgasmic spasms went on for nearly another minute, and somewhere in that time, John pulled out. Sherlock watched him dispose of the condom in the rubbish bin. Perfect. He could run some tests on John’s semen later. When he had better motor control of his limbs and didn’t feel trapped in a nebulous haze of pleasure. 

With a pleased hum, John practically collapsed on top of him. He stiffened in response, though the tension of his body seemed to go unnoticed. 

It was proper etiquette to move, wasn’t it? Their dalliance had clearly ended, and Sherlock’s sticky, sweaty body couldn’t have been pleasant to touch. He wasn’t sure how best to disentangle himself, and his limbs were too exhausted to obey. Better to let John decide how long they should remain entwined. Sherlock dragged a hand over his face. Spots of colour— _phosphenes_ —danced on the back of his eyelids. 

“God, that was amazing.”

“He had nothing to do with it,” Sherlock countered.

John tilted his chin upwards, flashing him a grin. “I’m aware, you absolute nutter.” He raised a hand, brushing a sweaty curl out of Sherlock’s face. The action was almost… tender. The sort one would see between couples. It made Sherlock’s heart ache. 

He cleared his throat with a rumble. “John,” he began, “I wanted to ask you… That is, I think it’s best to be upfront, and I would like to know if you still wanted. Me.”

John shot him the playful glare he usually employed when he thought Sherlock was telling an especially bad joke. “Of course I do.” 

Relief seeped into his very bones. Any future encounters likely wouldn’t be as pleasurable for John. Now that he had unequivocal proof that Sherlock was no longer a virgin, sexual intercourse wouldn’t hold the same allure. Still, it was pleasant to know John might possibly seek him out when he was sexually frustrated. Perhaps when he had a bit of a dry spell between getting girlfriends. Unless he wanted Sherlock for different reasons. They’d had penetrative sex, but there were still other possibilities, other intimate acts to explore. 

“For how much longer?” Sherlock asked. “I suppose there are a few things we haven't tried yet. Different positions, fellatio, et cetera. If possible, I would like an estimate of how long it will be until you get bored.” 

A furrow appeared between John’s brows. “Bored?”

“Yes,” he sighed. “That's what I just said. You'll tire of me eventually. I imagine it won't be long before some half-brained woman deigns to date you. So, how long?” 

John held his gaze. “How about forever? Does forever work?” 

The response caught him off-guard. Incredible. Even after all this time, John Watson was still capable of surprising him. “I… John, I’m not sure how likely it is you’ll find a girlfriend willing to ‘share you’ in this capacity. While I agree that monogamy is an antiquated notion, it is generally the norm for most couples. I highly doubt you’ll find someone who will not exhibit jealousy or insecurity over such an arrangement with me, and I must admit I’m rather averse to the idea of a threesome, particularly if someone from the opposite sex is included in the equation.”

“Sherlock, no.” John settled his palm on his shoulder. His hand was warm and sturdy. “That’s not what I’m saying at all. I want forever with _you._ Just you. No one else.” 

“Oh.” Sherlock’s mind was blank, swept clean as if from some bizarre windstorm. 

“Is that alright?”

“Of course it’s alright, why wouldn’t it be alright?” His heart was beating very loud. 

John brushed his fingers through Sherlock’s hair once again. It was amazing how he could remain steady while Sherlock was wracked with involuntary shivers. “I can tell you don’t believe me. That’s ok, too.”

“Is it?” his voice cracked. 

“Of course.” John's thumb stroked over his cheekbone. His face was brimming with an emotion Sherlock tentatively labeled as 'loving.' “After all, I have the rest of our lives to prove it to you.”


End file.
